


baby, it’s cold outside

by witty_kitty



Series: Bottom Wilbur Standalone Works [8]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Wilbur Soot, Fucking for Warmth I guess, Getting caught.... kinda, Interrupted Aftercare rip, M/M, Top Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), Until Dawn AU, Wilbur POV, Wilbur is injured but it’s not huge, safe sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:01:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29986020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witty_kitty/pseuds/witty_kitty
Summary: There’s a blizzard raging outside, a serial killer on the loose, fuckingmonsters— and Wilbur has to bunker down in a shitty cabin on a shitty couch with a shitty blanket.Well, at least he’s not with shitty company.
Relationships: Jschlatt/Wilbur Soot
Series: Bottom Wilbur Standalone Works [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2048960
Comments: 23
Kudos: 216





	baby, it’s cold outside

**Author's Note:**

> I am procrastinating on all of my work ✌️
> 
> Also trying to cut down the amount of tags I use for the folks who subscribed to the series, because lord it was way too long 
> 
> Btw you don’t need to know what Until Dawn is about to read this

Wilbur sighs, warm breath dissipating into the musty air of the decrepit cabin as he waits for Schlatt to light the fire. He’d help, but any time he tries to get up, the burning pain from the deep gouges in his messily bandaged leg stops him from making it off the couch — and that’s without the sharp glare Schlatt sends him the second he so much as even shifts. 

“There isn’t anything in here, Wilbur. All I found is one shitty blanket.” Speak of the devil, and he will arrive. Schlatt walks in, holding a thin and dusty blanket up to him. “Tell me if you’re dying, by the way. I don’t want to wake up next to a corpse.” 

“I’ll be sure to give you a heads-up before I leave the mortal plane,” Wilbur replies dryly, scooting over with a small wince as Schlatt drapes the blanket over him before settling in on the other end of the couch. His denim clad legs press against his, the length of the couch barely enough to fit the both of them. It doesn’t help that the blanket barely does anything, but it’s better than nothing, he supposes. “Fuck, it’s _freezing._ ”

“Get used to it, ‘cause we’re stuck here for a while.” 

Wilbur groans, throwing his head back as the couch creaks under their weight. “But Schlatt, I’m _cold._ ” 

“Why the hell didn’t you wear something warmer to a freezing, cold as shit mountain? What the fuck happened to your jacket?” 

“I gave it to Jack earlier at the lodge because he ripped a hole in his own. Wasn’t like I needed it in there anyway,” Wilbur says, thinking back. Jack had left to go find Ranboo, who had apparently gotten lost along the trail up. At the time, Wilbur hasn’t thought he’d be leaving the warmth of the lodge, so he handed it over without complaint. Had he known about the serial killer or whatever fucking monster that was chasing them earlier in the woods, he probably would’ve thought twice about giving up his jacket... and he definitely would’ve worn something warmer than a white button-up. Hindsight is a bitch. “You think they’re alright?” 

Schlatt doesn’t say anything, simply glancing down at Wilbur’s injured leg, still aching and bleeding (no thanks to their shitty makeshift bandages) from when the monster had sunk its claws in him and dragged him across the snow and dirt at almost inhuman speeds. Had Schlatt not shot it with a gun he found — Wilbur’s not sure where he got it from, and honestly, he’s not complaining — he isn’t sure he would’ve been able to get away (or if he even would’ve lived, but that’s not something he particularly wants to think about). In his opinion, getting off with just some bruises and a bloody leg is lucky, all things considered. 

Especially since any of the others could be encountering the same monster right now, alone and defenseless... _Tommy and Tubbo_ could be out there, alone and defenseless...

Wilbur doesn’t realize that he’s nearly bitten his thumb bloody until Schlatt reaches over to gently take his hand and pull it down. “Let’s talk about something else,” he suggests, and Wilbur swallows his anxiety and quietly nods. “Uh... your opinion on hot pockets?” 

...What? 

“Schlatt, what the hell?” Wilbur tries to sound disbelieving, but he can feel the edges of his lips pull up. He knows Schlatt can see it too, because the other plasters on a grin and starts going off about how wonderful the pretzel crust hot pocket is as they bunker down in a shitty cabin on a shitty couch with a shitty blanket. 

Well, at least he’s not with shitty company. 

...It’s still pretty fucking freezing though. 

Wilbur shivers and burrows further into the blanket, and Schlatt pauses for a moment in the middle of his rant (something about why ham and cheese hot pockets are the worst kind of hot pockets) to raise an eyebrow at him. “Are you still cold?”

He sniffs, “What do you think?” 

Schlatt hums, considering. “Get over here,” he says, and Wilbur yelps as Schlatt suddenly jerks on his arm, tugging him over hard enough that Wilbur ends up with his face smushed against Schlatt’s shoulder, legs slotted against each other as the blanket is pulled over them both. His leg burns from the sudden jostling, and Wilbur bites back a curse, glaring up at the other male. He glares right back. “We’re sharing body heat, dumbass. It’s what they do in those survival shows.”

“Could you try not to kill me while you’re at it?” Wilbur grumbles, but there’s no real heat to it. It is a lot more warmer now that he’s pressed against Schlatt under the blanket, but it’s still not enough. There’s nothing else they can do, though, so he’ll just power through it. Wilbur shuts his eyes and cuddles up into Schlatt’s neck. 

The hybrid chuckles, “You’re pretty gay right now.” 

“You’re the one who brought up sharing body heat,” he shoots back. “If anything, _you’re_ the gay one.” 

“I’ll be sure to leave you to freeze next time.” 

“You say that like I’m not freezing right now.” Wilbur falls off of his chest and into the crook of the couch with a yelp as Schlatt suddenly sits up, staring straight at him. 

“Wait, are you _still_ fucking cold?” 

Wilbur props himself up on an arm. “Yeah, but it’s fine. This is the best we can do, now lay back down.”

“...I know one other way,” Schlatt says, “But I don’t know if you want to hear it.” Well, it’s not like he has any better ideas. With a lazy sweep of his hand, he gestures for Schlatt to continue on. It couldn’t be that bad— “We could always fuck.”

Wilbur stares at him. 

Schlatt stares right back, and he’s completely serious. 

Swallowing, he finally finds his voice. “... _What?_ ”

“Listen, I did say you might not like it,” Schlatt says, hands up in a placating manner. “It was just an idea. We don’t have do anything.” 

“Well... I didn’t say I _didn’t_ want to, but... this won’t make things weird between us, right?” 

“Do you want things to be weird between us?” Wilbur shakes his head. Of course not, that’s the last thing he wants. “Then there you go. It won’t be weird if we don’t make it weird. Now, do you want to fuck or not?” 

“Only you would want to fuck on a cursed mountain,” Wilbur murmurs, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Yeah, I, uh— I, um, wouldn’t mind fucking you. For warmth. This doesn’t change anything.” Schlatt snorts, and the tips of his ears burn. “Hey— _mph!_ ” 

An ice-cold pair of lips press against his own, rough hands catching his jaw and effectively cutting him off. Wilbur jolts at the sudden move, lips parting instinctively by surprise, and Schlatt takes that as an opportunity to slip his tongue inside. It’s not the best kiss ever — their lips are dry and chapped from the cold, and they are in a dingy cabin, but Wilbur finds that he doesn’t particularly care. It helps that Schlatt’s a much better kisser than Wilbur had thought... not that it had been something he thought about often, of course. 

One of Schlatt’s hands trails down to wrap around Wilbur’s hips and pull him onto the other’s lap, still mindful of his injury. His face flushes as his crotch presses against Schlatt’s thigh, the rough denim between them making the friction on his crotch almost painful. Heat starts to spread through him from the pit of his stomach from every rough grind, forcing low moans from his lips that Schlatt simply swallows up. 

Wilbur threads his fingers into the man’s short dark locks, pressing as close as he can. When they finally break apart, he can’t help but let out a breathless little giggle as he wipes away the thin line of saliva between them. “So. Not gay, right?”

“Nah. We’re doing this for survival,” Schlatt says, lips toying up into a half smile, and Wilbur smiles back... up until the fucker shoves his cold hands up Wilbur’s shirt.

“Schlatt!” 

“Sorry,” he says, but it’s completely unapologetic. Wilbur rolls his eyes, still lightly rutting against Schlatt’s leg. Puffs of hot air dissipate into the cold air between them as he slips his own cold fingers down Schlatt’s underwear, smiling as the other man jolts underneath him, tugging his hand out with a quiet curse. “ _Fuck,_ Wilbur— how far are we going?” 

“I was thinking some heavy petting, but maybe...” Wilbur trails off, considering as he rubs circles into the bare skin of Schlatt’s stomach. It’s basically become a heater under their blanket, and while he relishes the warmth on most of his body, it still feels like his nose is about to fall off. “Wait, I’ve got an idea. Lay down properly. I’ll move.” Wilbur tugs the blanket off as he stands up, wincing slightly as he puts pressure on his bad leg. 

Schlatt raises a brow, but he listens and moves anyway. With a bit of maneuvering, Wilbur is able to lay down with Schlatt, back pressing into his chest as he tugs the blanket over their heads. It’s may be thin and holey, but it’s more than long enough to cover the expanse of the couch and rapidly heat up the air with their body heat. 

“Pretty good idea, coming from you,” Schlatt says, “Spending the night is almost tolerable now.” Wilbur smiles, grinding lightly down on the bulge poking at his ass. Schlatt is quick to buck his hips back up into him, muffling his low moan into Wilbur’s curls. It’s mildly upsetting that he can’t see Schlatt’s face, but the enthusiastic grinding and quiet pants are more than enough for his imagination. 

One of his hands slips down to start palming at his own neglected erection, getting off on the way Schlatt ruts up into him, moaning into his ear. It’s quick and dirty, and a part of him wants it to last longer, wants to go even further with him. “Schlatt,” he says before he can stop himself, “I’m still pretty cold.” It’s a bold faced lie, and for a moment, when Schlatt pauses in his grinding, he swears he’s about to call him out on it. 

Instead, he only breaks the silence with a simple question. “Really?” 

“Yeah,” Wilbur nods, and Schlatt hums, considering. He’s not sure how else to try and subtlety—

“We could fuck.” 

Wilbur nearly chokes on his spit. “ _Shit,_ Schlatt.” He really did just go out and say it. Sometimes, Wilbur‘s jealous of how _nonchalant_ he can be about everything. 

“Hey, we’ve both got socks on.” 

He can’t help the snort that escapes him. “Really? That’s your reasoning?” 

“Do you want to warm up or not, Soot?” Schlatt asks. It’s light-hearted, but there’s an undercurrent of seriousness in there. “I’ve got some lube if you’re that worried.” 

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were prepared for this,” Wilbur murmurs, but he grabs the tube anyway, shoving his pants and boxers down mid-thigh. “Why do you even have this?” 

“It’s cold as shit, and it keeps drying out my fucking hands. Any more questions, or can we fuck already?” 

“Why are you using _lube_ as— you know, what, nevermind, I don’t want to know. You’re so impatient,” Wilbur mutters, slipping two slicked up fingers inside. It’s a little bit awkward because of their position (really, they probably could’ve — and should’ve — found a bed in this place), but it’s working, and that’s all that matters. “Do you have a condom? I’m not using snow to clean myself up.” 

He’s answered with the soft crinkle of a wrapper. “For the record, Virgo, this isn’t mine. Found it in one of the bedrooms back at the cabin.”

“Really? And it’s in your size?” Wilbur can’t keep the doubt out of his voice. “...Are you absolutely sure you didn’t plan this?” 

“What, you really think I would go through all of this just to get in your fucking pants?” Schlatt sounds almost offended at the implication.

“I wouldn’t put it past you, honestly. You seem to sleazy enough.” 

“The fucking respect you have for me sometimes...” 

“You say that like I had any for you in the first place.” 

A shiver runs up his spine as Schlatt suddenly groans in his ear. It’s just as he crooks his fingers as well, and Wilbur has to bite back the moan that threatens to bubble up. He’s starting to get sweaty under the blanket, and he knows Schlatt can tell that they don’t actually need to do this for warmth, but the other still isn’t saying anything. Instead, the man brushes his erection against the small of his back, silently watching Wilbur fuck himself on his fingers. A quiet, breathy gasp slips out of his mouth as another, much different finger suddenly slips in next to his, twisting and thrusting with him. “Schlatt—“ 

“Just helping you out,” the cheeky little fucker says, and Wilbur knows, even without looking at him, that there’s a shit-eating grin on his face. He can practically feel it. He can’t even tell him off; every time he tries, the probing finger brushes against his prostate and forces strangled groans from his lips, cutting off any attempts to scold Schlatt. 

Schlatt continues to ‘help’ him, scissoring him open none too gently — not that Wilbur minds. The pain is enjoyable, mixing well with the pleasure, and that being said... it’s not enough; he’s starting to get a bit impatient. He pulls his fingers out, wiping them on the faded fabric of the couch, expecting Schlatt to do the same... but he doesn’t. An undignified squeal escapes him as a hand suddenly grips the base of his cock, thumb rubbing circles against the veins as three fingers thrust roughly inside of him. “Wha— What the hell are you—?” 

“Sorry, Wilbur,” Schlatt says, not at all apologetic, “Just wanted to see your reaction.” 

“Prick,” he mutters, shoving the hands off as best as he can and throwing his outer leg over Schlatt’s own. “Let’s just get on with this already.”

“And you called _me_ impatient.” Before he can retort, Schlatt grabs him by the hips and pushes inside, slow and steady. Wilbur’s breath hitches as the ribs of the condom drags against his walls, and then Schlatt suddenly pauses mid-way through. “ _Relax,_ Wilbur, holy shit,” he grits out. Wilbur hadn’t realized how tense he had been until he shakily lets out the breath he‘d been holding, and Schlatt slides in the rest of the way. 

For a few moments, it almost feels like time has stopped under these thick, dusty sheets. It’s getting hard to breathe; the heat is almost choking him , but Wilbur doesn’t want to come out for air. He reaches blindly back, trying to grasp at whatever he can of Schlatt, his shirt, his hands, _anything_ to try and ground himself. Schlatt grabs his hand, lacing their fingers together, even if it’s a little bit awkward. “You good, Wilbur?” 

“Y-Yeah,” he murmurs, “You can start— you can start moving now. Please.” Schlatt hesitates for a moment more, but he starts moving anyway, a slow, deep clip that makes the rubber ribs brush against his prostate with every short, sharp thrust. It’s almost torture; there’s no way to actually hit it in this position, and there’s no way to change positions without at least one of them freezing their balls off, so he’s stuck grinding and squirming against Schlatt as he fucks into him. 

Wilbur squeezes Schlatt’s hand, not wanting to let go, and yet wanting to deal with his aching erection straining against his shirt at the same time. Every little bit of friction against his sensitive cock makes him tighten around Schlatt, to the point where the other has to stop again just so he can relax. “Jesus, Wilbur,” Schlatt groans, “It feels like you’re trying to cut off my dick.” 

He flushes red at the comment. “F-Fuck off,” he snaps, (reluctantly) letting go of Schlatt’s hand to start lazily fisting his own dick in an effort to loosen up. It seems to work; suddenly Schlatt is thrusting up, a much faster, much more staccato pace that forces low moans from his throat. Schlatt’s breath is heavy on his neck, something wet — drool? — dripping down and slipping under his rumpled shirt. His grip tightens around his cock as Schlatt suddenly bites down, deep enough that he’s sure it’ll leave a noticeable mark... and he can’t find it in himself to care. 

A loud moan tears from his throat as a warm tongue laps at the wound, smearing saliva all over his neck. Schlatt’s cock drags across his walls, the slick ribbed rubber catching on his hole every time he pulls out. The need to see Schlatt’s face nags at him — how does he look? Is his face scrunched up, completely focused on fucking Wilbur? Or is he relaxed, just going with the flow? 

Wilbur desperately needs to know how he looks when he falls apart. 

He turns his head, and their eyes meet. “Wilbur, why the hell are you staring at me?” Schlatt grits out. 

“What? Are you nervous?”

“It’s pretty fucking creepy. You’re just staring without saying anything.” A particularly rough thrust forces a gasp from his throat, and Schlatt chuckles. “That’s a lot better.”

“F-Fuck you,” he says, though there’s no real heat behind it, and they both know it. 

“Maybe next time.” _Next time?_ Wilbur flushes red at the thought, but he doesn’t press it — he doesn’t _want_ to press it, because if it’s a joke... 

Schlatt’s breathing is getting harsher, movements getting rougher and more frantic, nails digging little crescents into his hips. Wilbur bucks back as much as he can; even as his leg throbs in pain, he can’t bring himself to mind. They’re both so close, pent up and completely ready to snap. “I’m... Schlatt, I’m gonna...” Wilbur huffs out, pumping his cock as quick as he can. Schlatt only hums, nodding his assent as he continues his rough thrusts. 

Wilbur’s thumb circles his tip one last time before he’s cumming, the sticky white substance dripping down his fist and staining the fabric of the couch below them. It’s a struggle to keep his eyes open, but fuck if Wilbur won’t try. He watches as Schlatt curses when his tight walls clamp down even tighter, the way his face scrunches up, and he bites his lip hard enough to draw blood. The other man buries his face into the back of his shirt, rutting lightly through his orgasm, and dear lord, Wilbur wants— no, _needs_ to see the other ways he can make this man fall apart. 

As the condom fills up inside of him, Wilbur shifts. The heat isn’t nearly as searing due to the layer of rubber, but it’s still pretty uncomfortable. Schlatt lets out a whine when he does, and though Wilbur wants to tease him for it, he’s also pretty fucking exhausted. A yawn hits him as they slowly rock to a stop together, exhaustion pulling at his eyes and making him press further into Schlatt as the blanket is pushed down to their necks. The sudden rush of cold air actually feels pretty nice on his face. “I’m kind of tired.” 

“At least you’re not cold anymore — which was thanks to _me_ , by the way.” 

“I’d rather not inflate your ego,” Wilbur laughs, shifting again. This time, though, it presses down on the leg wound, and it _hurts._ A hiss escapes his lips, and Schlatt glances at him, worried. 

“You’re not dying, right? I’m not exactly into corpses, even if they look as pretty as you do.” The air of nonchalance Schlatt keeps up is painfully fake; there’s actual worry in his voice as he fists the fabric of Wilbur’s shirt. 

“Don’t worry,” he reassures through another yawn, “This is just— jet lag, or something. I didn’t sleep at all last night, ‘cause I thought...y’know, at the lodge, but...”

“But then the shitty B-movie serial killer knock-off ran everyone out.” He hums an affirmative. It’s getting harder and harder to keep his eyes open, Schlatt’s voice lulling him to sleep even in their less than comfortable position. “Wait, shit, what about clean-up?” 

“Later,” Wilbur mumbles, half-muffled by the fabric of the couch. “‘m _tired._ ” 

“Wilbur, I am not marinating my fucking dick in your—“ 

_Crash!_

The sound of glass shattering makes them both shut up and go still, Schlatt instinctively pulling him closer— and pulling him further down onto his softened dick. He’s right on his prostate, and the sudden stimulation makes him want to cry out, but Wilbur doesn’t dare make a sound, not when there’s something else in here with them. Schlatt swallows hard behind him, his breath heavy on the back of Wilbur’s neck. 

_Is it the serial killer?_ He doesn’t even have to look at Schlatt’s face tells him that he’s thinking the same thing. 

Two arms wrap around him, pulling him close. “What the hell?” Schlatt whispers lowly, but before Wilbur can reply, something suddenly crawls into view, and he nearly gasps. If it weren’t for Schlatt’s hand quickly coming to cover his mouth, he’s sure the... _thing_ would’ve heard. 

It’s grotesque, long and lanky limbs while crawling on all fours. Unseeing eyes flicker across the room, before landing on them. _It’s the thing from before_ , Wilbur realizes, _the one that attacked me._ It crawls closer and closer, and Wilbur is so close to screaming and booking it, but Schlatt is a steady and calming presence behind him, gripping his hand and squeezing it. _Stay calm,_ he seemed to be saying. _Don’t fuck it up._

The monster stops in front of them, soulless eyes staring into Wilbur’s. He scarcely breathes as its eyes trail over them, its sharpened unnatural teeth dripping with saliva. His heart pounds in his chest; is this what staring at death feels like? 

A sharp thud comes from the outside, and as quickly as it came in, the thing vanished, presumably rushing out the window it came in from. They sit there for a few long minutes in shocked silence before they’re scrambling away from each other and rushing to get out of the cabin. 

“What the fuck, what the fuck, what the actual fuck was that, Wilbur—“ 

“Don’t know, don’t care to find out. We’re getting out of here,” Wilbur says quickly, smoothing out his shirt and after a quick scan, grabbing a rusty metal pipe tucked away in a corner to use as a weapon. It’s long enough to use to support himself too, which doesn’t hurt. “Fuck that, fuck this, we’re going to the others.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself, Virgo, let’s get the fuck out of here already.”

**Author's Note:**

> tfw you’re snuggling with your best friend and a monster comes in 😔


End file.
